


An Arrow to the Heart (Would Have Been Kinder)

by Rainne



Series: How Steve Rogers Got His Groove Back [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, there is really no excuse for this kind of behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/pseuds/Rainne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot set in the middle of chapter 4 of "Winter's Ending".  Clint attempts to deal with the knowledge that Coulson is alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Arrow to the Heart (Would Have Been Kinder)

Afterward, Clint wandered.

He wandered through the tower at first, up and down the stairs on the private floors, in and out of the common areas. He didn't go into his apartment; there was a picture in a frame on his coffee table and a red, white, and blue blanket on the back of his couch and those things were special, and he knew himself well enough to know that if he got close to them right now, he might damage them irreparably. So he stayed out of his apartment. Instead, he wandered.

Eventually, wandering those few floors wasn't enough. He had no desire to go into the gym or the media center or the library; he wanted to walk. So he got in the elevator and rode it all the way down to the lobby level and then he melted in with the commuter crowd, making his way down the public stairs and into the cool underground of Grand Central Station. He swiped his MetroCard and got onto the first train that stopped, not even caring where it was headed.

He got off again when he'd stood still for as long as he could, crossed the platform and made his way up to the street level without even looking at the signs. Then he tucked his hands into his pockets and he walked. Sometimes he turned left, sometimes he turned right, but always, always, he put one foot in front of the other and he walked. _Forward momentum_ , he thought, vaguely, as he made his way through neighborhood after neighborhood. _Just keep breathing._

In his mind, he saw Phil as they had met, ten years previously, in the empty shooting range on Corry Station in Pensacola, Florida. 

“ _Gunnery Sergeant Clinton Barton?”_

“ _Sir!” Barton snapped to attention, turning to face whomever had just addressed him from the back of the shooting range. He was expecting an officer; he got something completely different._

_The man in the nondescript black suit was a little bit shorter than Clint, well-built but not muscular, and had the same blankly friendly expression that had often graced the faces of some of the scariest men Clint had ever met. He offered his hand. “Special Agent Phil Coulson,” he said. “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Can we speak in private?”_

“ _Yes, sir,” Clint replied. “Do you have someplace in mind?”_

“ _I was thinking somewhere off base,” Coulson replied. “You strike me as a man who appreciates a basket of hot wings.”_

_Clint cocked an eyebrow. “You're a perceptive man, Agent Coulson,” he said, pressing a blue button on the wall nearby. The target, along with the four arrows stuck in it, zoomed up the range to him, and he retrieved the arrows, tucking them neatly into his quiver. He folded up the collapsible bow he'd been using, tucking it into his utility belt, and then sent the target back down to the far end of the range. “Ready when you are.”_

“ _Excellent. I know just the place.”_

_Clint had been half-expecting Coulson to take him to Hooters. Not that he'd complain; he liked tits as much as the next tit-appreciating man. But this wasn't going to be a casual kind of conversation, and Hooters was a casual kind of place. Also, it was all the way across town. Fortunately, Clint turned out to be wrong. They went somewhere even better: Justin's._

_Justin's was a tiny dive bar and grill about two miles off base, and they served wings in flavors labeled hot, very hot, super hot, hotter-than-your-mom, and sweet-like-your-girlfriend. Both Clint and Coulson ordered beers and baskets of hotter-than-your-mom and they sat in a corner booth, studying each other across the table. Clint caved first. “So, mind if I ask why we're here, sir?”_

“ _We heard about what happened in Kandahar.”_

_Clint swallowed hard. “Look, I don't know what you heard, but - ”_

“ _You saved your entire detachment from a pair of Cold War-era super soldiers using modified Paleolithic weaponry and basic good sense,” Coulson interrupted. When Clint stared at him, he continued, “I'm not sure what you were told about the two individuals who attacked your unit, but the truth about them is that they were a remnant of a Soviet program called Department X. It was active from World War II until the fall of the Iron Curtain, and one of its purposes was to try and recreate the Erskine Serum.”_

“ _The Captain America thing?”_

_Coulson nodded. “Exactly. The base your team found was thought to have been lost in an earthquake; those two revenants had probably been trapped under there for decades. They were insane, Gunnery Sergeant. What you did was absolutely the only choice you could have made, and you made it quickly enough that you were able to save every man with you. No one died except two men who had, to all intents and purposes, already been dead for thirty or more years.”_

_Clint ran a hand across his buzzed hair. “I... don't really know what to say to that.”_

_Their food arrived; Coulson waited until the waitress was gone before speaking again. “You don't need to say anything,” he said. “It's still my turn to talk.” He picked up a tiny drumstick, dipped it in bleu cheese. “I'm here to make you a job offer.”_

“ _I just re-upped,” Clint said._

“ _That doesn't matter,” Phil replied. “We can have your contract shifted, if you decide to take my offer. SHIELD needs people like you. This world is... well, for lack of a better term, Gunnery Sergeant, it's much stranger than most people know. Things like genetically-engineered super soldiers are some of the least strange things you'll be apt to encounter on a SHIELD mission. I'll admit, not everyone can handle the environment, but I think you're a bit more... shall we say, flexible? Than the average person.”_

_Clint gnawed on a wing, studying Coulson. “Was that a jab at my circus background?”_

_Coulson shook his head. “A jab? Absolutely not. A reference? Definitely.” He took a sip of his beer. “People like yourself, who have unusual backgrounds and unusual skill sets, often come to find that they fit in better at SHIELD than any other place. We tend to attract those with a little extra... color.”_

_Clint snorted. “That's an interesting term for it, sir.”_

_And Coulson grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is. So what do you say? Want to give us a try? Take on some missions that will challenge your mind as well as your physical skills? Or would you honestly rather continue teaching marksmanship in a town where the greatest distraction is wondering whether today's sea breeze will be blowing the smell of the sewage treatment plant into downtown or away from it?”_

_Clint studied Coulson's face for a long moment. Then he said, “I'm in.”_

_Coulson lifted his beer, clinking it against Clint's. “Excellent.”_

That was the Phil he had always remembered: Phil who had his back when he brought Natasha in against orders; Phil who never gave up on Strike Team Delta and ran the extraction from Budapest when everyone else swore they must be dead. Phil who had kissed him with what Clint had thought must be more feeling than anyone else ever had.

_The safe house was fifteen miles north of Constanța on the coast of the Black Sea, and when the sun went down, it was utterly silent._

_The generators were all underground, and they could not be heard from the flat roof of the house. The only sounds were the ones they made themselves: Coulson turning the pages of his book, Clint smoking Russian cigarettes and repairing his collapsible bow. Not even the lights made noise; Clint was surprised by the lack of electrical buzz, but Coulson knew about them - some kind of experimental technology. They didn't even draw bugs; something about the light not being exactly the right wavelength._

_Clint focused on the stuck mechanism; something was stuck, and the bow wouldn't retract. There were worse problems to have; if it was stuck in the open position, at least it could be used, but if he couldn't fix it, he was going to have to scrap it before they left Romania, because their flight out was (believe it or not) commercial, and he didn't have a proper case for it._

_After quite a bit of fiddling, he found the problem; a touch with a Q-tip dipped in Vaseline and some very careful pressure did the trick, and within just a minute, he had it working again like it was supposed to. With a soft noise of self-congratulations, Clint folded up the bow and began cleaning up his mess. When he finished, Coulson was still reading, and Clint didn't really feel like going inside; it was a beautiful night, and the weather was nearly perfect. He'd been on the roof with his shirt off since the early afternoon, and had edged a bit past tan and into faintly-roasted, so the cool evening breeze felt good on his overheated skin. Lacking anything better to do, he pulled out his twin Walthers and set about disassembling the first one to clean it and check the mechanisms._

_He was about halfway through the second gun when Coulson turned off the tiny reading light and closed his book. He glanced up. “Done for the night, sir?”_

_Coulson made an affirmative noise. “My eyes were starting to ache,” he grumbled. “I can't sit up and read all night long in terrible light like I could when I was a younger man.”_

_Clint chuckled. “Not being able to read like you used to isn't the usual getting-older complaint,” he said, grinning. Then he said, “What's the book about?”_

“ _It's a collection of letters written by Václav Havel, who was the ninth president of Czechoslovakia and first president of the Czech Republic,” Coulson replied. “He wrote a lot about dissidence, especially under Communist regimes, and - ”_

“ _And how the nature of a totalitarian government can make dissidents out of everyday citizens,” Clint said, grinning a little bit at the surprised expression Coulson couldn't quite hide. “I'm particularly fond of The Power of the Powerless,” he continued. He gestured to the gun in front of him. “It's always interesting to me to think about how sometimes the best weapons we can use aren't weapons, but words.”_

“ _The pen is mightier than the sword,” Coulson murmured._

“ _Sometimes,” Clint agreed. He reassembled the gun with quick, efficient movements. “But not always.” He checked the action, then slid a clip home with a loud snap. “Sometimes the world still needs people who can wield a sword better than a pen.”_

_Coulson drew his foot up onto his chair, resting his arm on his knee. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”_

_Clint shrugged. “I reserve the right not to answer.”_

“ _Of course.” Coulson tilted his head, studying Clint, and then said, “Why do you pretend?”_

_Clint smirked. “This is the part where I pretend not to know what you're talking about, right?” He shook his head. “It's easier. Nobody expects me to know things. They look at me, and they read my file, and they see the highlights.” He held up a hand, ticking off points on his fingers. “Ran away from home and joined the circus. Juvenile delinquent. GED. Jarhead. So they put me in these little boxes. Meathead. Muscle. Grunt. Stupid. Nobody stops to think about the fact that for me to make some of the shots I make, I'm basically doing advanced physics in my head.”_

_Coulson stared at him for a long time, not speaking. Clint stared back, feeling oddly defiant, the way he sometimes had as a teenager when people tried to tell him what he ought to do with his life and why he ought to do it. Finally Coulson spoke. “I'm about to say something that is highly inappropriate,” he said. “I'm going to say it with the clear understanding that I am aware that it is highly inappropriate, and that I will not ever say anything like this again if it makes you the least bit uncomfortable. All right?”_

_Now wildly confused, Clint could only nod._

_Coulson took a deep breath and said, “That may have been the hottest thing I have ever heard anyone say, and I would really, really like to kiss you right now.”_

_ Clint held very still for a long moment, sure that he was being punked. When the tentative hope on Coulson's face began to slowly morph back into the usual pleasantly shuttered expression, though, he shook himself out of his paralysis. “I... didn't know you were into guys,” he said, trying for casual and missing by about a mile. _

_ Coulson shrugged. “I'm flexible.” _

“ _Oh,” Clint said. He fidgeted with the case of gun-cleaning supplies before saying, “Why now?”_

_ Coulson looked down at his hands for a moment before looking back up at Clint. “Because in all the time that you and I have worked together, that's the first time you've voluntarily admitted how intelligent you are,” he said. “I've seen it before - the thing about advanced physics, for example, I knew that. But you've been very careful about not letting people see that.” _

“ _Yeah, well,” Clint said, shrugging slightly. “Sometimes it's better to be underestimated.”_

_ Coulson grinned. “That is very, very true.” _

_ Clint studied Coulson for another minute, his sharp eyes seeming to look deep inside, searching out all the secret places that Phil had always tried to keep hidden. Finally he said, “So... what if I said that I think I'd like it if you kissed me?” _

_ Coulson swallowed hard. “Well, then, I think I would probably kiss you,” he said. “And then if you did like it, I might kiss you again.” _

_ A slow burning smile spread across Clint's face. “Well, then,” he said, “maybe you ought to come over here and kiss me, then.” _

_So Phil did._

For two years, he had carried the weight of Phil's death on his conscience. 

There were lots of deaths on the helicarrier that day. For most of them, Clint was able (with help and with difficulty) to accept that he had been the instrument of death, but not the killer. He had wielded his weapon and they had died, but his will had been subject to another. He had been nothing more than a puppet. He could forgive himself for them, he could pray for the peace of their souls, and he could let them go. But he couldn't forgive himself for Phil.

He couldn't forgive himself for being the instrument that had brought about the death of the one person who had ever loved him unconditionally. He had loved Phil more than he had ever loved anyone else in his life, and finding out that Phil was gone, lost in the battle while he himself had been lost in the blue, had very nearly destroyed Clint.

And it was all for nothing, because Phil was alive. Alive and well and working with a new team, fighting HYDRA in the Hub with May and Ward -  _Ward, that smug, self-absorbed asshole!_ \- while Clint struggled to continue existing in this empty, lightless, airless life. 

He would have gladly sacrificed his own soul to go back and undo what had been done, gladly taken Phil's place in front of that spear, to die and burn for all eternity, only knowing that Phil was alive, Phil was safe, that the world was not this dead and barren and Phil-less place... and the whole time, Phil  _was_ alive, Phil  _was_ safe, but Phil, who had been the center of Clint Barton's world and the axis around which he revolved, apparently could not spare the time to make a phone call letting Clint know that he was alive and everything was okay and hey, it sure had been fun but it looked like it was time to move on, no hard feelings.

He wandered into a park, sat himself down on a bench, stared at the duck pond. The hell of it all was that Clint would have understood. If Phil had just said to him,  _I don't feel that way any more, I think it's time to end things,_ Clint would have let him go. Would have collected his things from Phil's apartment, would have given him a last kiss - or a handshake, if that was what Phil preferred - and would have gone, without a backward glance. Would have been able to work with Phil as his handler on missions without any trouble. Would have been able to take all those feelings he felt for Phil and put them carefully in a box and lock them away, and move on, and live his life. If Phil would have just said.

But he didn't say. He didn't say;  _Fury_ said. And Fury didn't say  _over_ , Fury didn't say  _gone._ Fury said  _dead_ , and Clint had been carrying that around for two years now, living inside his chest and making it hard to breathe. And now, now Phil was alive, and Phil was fine, and healthy, and working with a team that included  _Grant Fucking Ward_ \- 

And it was that thought, that name, that finally broke him. Grant Ward was a smug, arrogant, cocky son of a bitch, young and handsome and smooth as silk and fake as a porn star's tits, and he was one of those people who looked at Clint and saw the scars and the calluses and the smashed up nose and the jarhead buzz cut and smirked. He looked at Clint, and Clint could practically hear himself being labeled  _stupid_ and  _pointless_ and  _washed-up_ . And Clint had heard him, when he thought Clint wasn't listening, making disparaging comments about Natasha.  _Eye-candy_ , he'd said, and a few other things besides. 

He'd considered, a few times, taking the boy out behind the woodshed and teaching him a few things about respecting his elders. But he'd let it go, at the time, deciding that the satisfaction wasn't worth the fallout. But Coulson had known - he'd  _known_ how Clint felt. Clint had specifically mentioned it. They'd had an entire  _conversation_ about the fact that Ward was still young and that his experiences were vastly different from Clint's, and that while his abrasiveness would be a liability on a team, Ward definitely worked better alone. 

That  _Grant Fucking Ward_ was apparently worthy of knowing that Coulson was alive - that he was apparently worthy of a place on Coulson's team when the man who'd been sharing Coulson's bed for  _ eight years _ couldn't even get a fucking phone call - that was the ultimate slap in the face. Clint might have forgiven the silence, might have forgiven the abandonment, might have even forgiven being left in the dark to carry the weight of Phil's death like a millstone around his neck. But knowing that Phil had done all of those things deliberately, leaving Clint in grief and despair in favor of  _ Grant Ward _ ... that was not something Clint Barton thought he could forgive.

He didn't even realize he was crying until Natasha sat down beside him and handed him a handkerchief.

Once he had himself under control again, he said, “Why do I feel like a teenage girl in some dramatic after-school movie?”

“Because you've just had everything you thought was true about him ripped out from under you and replaced with something you're not prepared to deal with,” Natasha replied. 

“Of all people,” Clint said, “why did it have to be Ward?”

Natasha made a sharp, Russian sort of noise. “I have been asking myself the same question this entire time,” she admitted. “Of all the available agents - even of all the specialists - why  _ him _ ? It is as if he wanted deliberately to insult you. Us.”

Clint shook his head. “I just can't understand it. I thought...  _ Eight years _ , Tash. And it meant so little to him that he can just...” He waved an expressive hand. “With  _ Grant Ward _ ?”

She sighed, resting her head in her hands. “I can't explain it,” she said softly. “I don't know the words to say that will help to ease this pain for you. I suspect that there are none.” She looked up at him. “Do you want to find out?”

He jerked slightly, his eyes seeking hers. “What?”

“Do you want to find out?” she repeated. “We could go to him. Demand answers. Tony would help us. You could confront him, make him tell you why.”

Clint thought about this for a long moment, twisting the handkerchief in his hands. At last, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “At least... not right now.” He swallowed hard. “I think if I had to look him in the face right now, I might throw up.”

Natasha nodded. “I don't blame you,” she said softly. 

They sat quietly together for a long time. 

As the sun began to sink from the sky, Natasha's phone rang in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and thumbed it on. “Romanoff.”

“Natasha?” Clint heard Steve's voice say. “Are you with Clint?”

“Yes,” she said. “We're in Queens. Baisley Pond Park.”

Clint looked around. “We are?”

She rolled her eyes at him. Through the phone, Steve said, “We mostly just wanted to make sure he was okay, but Bruce is making dinner and was sort of wondering if you would be back in time.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint. He took a deep breath. He was going to have to get over this, to move on. There was no time like the present to start doing exactly that. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Tell him we're on our way back.”

Natasha relayed the message and then hung up. She stood, and Clint stood with her. He took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Let's go home.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic) An Arrow to the Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665106) by [secondalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondalto/pseuds/secondalto)




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